Once, in her small house, a mother was mending some torn clothing for her child. She was tired, her eyes falling shut, but everything had to be done for the following day. When she finished, and after she made sure everything was in place, that the ingredients for breakfast were handy, and that there was nothing, nothing left to do, she made sure the fireplace was set for the night and went towards the staircase to climb up to bed.
As she climbed, she noticed something had been left on the fifth stair. In the middle, with a note. “For you,” it said, and below it was a simple old notebook that her child had wrapped in used gift paper and the pen she had looked for earlier. She looked at the note, notebook, pen, and tears filled her eyes. “You promised you would write the stories you tell me, remember?” her daughter told her earlier that week. How could she explain that she was tired and that there were so many chores and things to take care of?
She put the notebook and pen on a bookcase by the stairs and went up to bed. She laid in bed awake, but she could not fall asleep.
The following day, her daughter saw the notebook on the bookcase and opened it, anticipating. Nothing. Nothing at all, she thought, disappointed. She decided to try again, and in the evening, when she went to sleep and her mother was still taking care of all the little things, she left the notebook on the stairs again. And again, and again.
On the fourth evening, the mother knew the notebook would be there, and also where to look for her favorite pen. She took them from the stairs while tidying up the little house and placed them on the table. As soon as they were there, a force pulled her toward them, and she found herself writing and writing and writing, all the stories she remembered and some new ones. She wrote and wrote until she fell asleep. Her head rested on the notebook itself.
A hug woke her up. Her daughter came down and put her head over her shoulder. She made some tea and breakfast for them both. They were both quiet. “Thanks,” her mother said eventually, still not fully awake. “Thanks,” she said again and hugged her daughter firm and tight. From that day on, a spark had reawakened. A seed had awakened. Their stories, waking up to life.
Healing stories are a magnificent and fun tool, connecting and bridging worlds.
Would you like to learn how to share a heart story with the child(ren) in your life? Enjoy my free guide: How to craft a healing story for your child 🙂
Learn more about mythical healing stories here.
